


The Old Apartment

by romanticalgirl



Category: Dawson's Creek
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl





	The Old Apartment

Pacey slipped the key into the lock and turned it, holding his breath as it clicked and unlocked, the knob twisting in his hand. He stepped into the darkened apartment, closing the door behind him, turning the lock without thought.

Leaning back against the wood, he closed his eyes and inhaled the somewhat stale air. The windows were painted shut despite the arguments with the landlord, the citations from the fire department. It was the first project on his list. Dust and smoke from the fireplace hung in the air as well, laced with the melting scent of chocolate. He looked at his watch without thinking about the darkness, not needing to see the date to make the chocolate make sense. 

There were undoubtedly bags of popcorn buried in the trash somewhere, stuffed away so the smell wouldn't linger. He took a few steps inside, using the moonlight to guide him to the sofa, reaching over to turn on the table lamp. Its gold glow shimmered out over the gray upholstery, barely lighting the room. 

There was a sketchbook on the table and his eyebrow rose, the temptation to flip through the pages almost overwhelming. Forcing himself away, he headed deeper into the apartment, down the short hall to the bedroom. 

He stood outside the door, listening even though he knew he was alone. It was like a sanctuary or a church, offering up a prayer before defiling it with his presence. Smiling to himself, he turned the knob and opened the door, flipping on the light before his brain could manufacture any images he didn't want to face. 

The phone rang and he froze for a second, heart in his throat. He laughed the anxiety away, shaking his head as it rang again, the machine kicking on, her voice floating ethereally around the room. 

"We can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as we're doneer, we can." It ended with her laughter, shrieking as he'd tickled her. They'd been lying on the bed, her half-draped over the edge as his fingers had moved over her bare back to her sides, caressing her until he'd given in to the impulse. Her laughter disappeared with the sharp beep and another voice started up. 

"You're never home anymore. Or are you avoiding my calls?" Jen laughed softly, sounding tipsy. "You need to talk about this, you know. It's not just going to go away. Or come back, as the case may be." 

He flinched slightly, turning away from the blinking red light. 

"Maybe you're out on a date. You said that guy from work asked you out. I hope so. You need something nice right now." Another flinch, this one as he opened the closet, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of cedar and lavender, vanilla and cream. "He's not coming back." 

"He is back," he spoke in the silence of the room, forcing his eyes open, making himself focus on the task in front of him. 

"Besides, he's a fuck. He left you. No warning, no signs. Nothing. Remember?" Jen blew out a frustrated sigh. "Pick up the damn phone." 

"We can't get to the phone right now," he chided quietly, pushing aside the blue silk dress she'd purchased because it matched his eyes. "What part of that didn't you get, Jen?" 

"Have you tried to talk to him?" She sighed again, this one softer and sadder. "Call me, okay?" 

The phone clicked and he forced his fingers away from the material, forced his mind away from pushing it up her long legs in the elevator, sliding his fingers inside her as they'd ridden to the penthouse suite, alone in the quiet, on their way to a party for her boss. 

Several other outfits shoved to the side until the materials changed and he found what he was looking for. Pulling them out of the closet, he laid his dress shirts on the bed, piling them until they threatened to topple over. He'd had to make an emergency trip to the store after he'd left, not wanting to stay long enough to clean out, unable to watch her body jerk shockily as she'd cried. 

The dresser was next and he paused in front of it, noting dust had settled around his things, nothing moved since she'd thrown the alarm clock as he'd left the room, the glass face shattered over the scarred wood. He looked away from the mess and got on his knees, digging a suitcase out from under the bed. 

His duffel bag had been filled with essentials when he'd left, but there were still enough clothes to fill at least two bags from the matching set of dark green luggage she'd picked out. He'd return them at some point, probably through a mutual friend. 

If they had any left. 

Three drawers down and he stopped. Some things had been moved, touched. His favorite t-shirts had been rooted through, a few missing now. He didn't bother to look for them, knowing that he didn't need them. Didn't want them. They'd remind him of her in a completely different way than they reminded her of him. 

The dress shirts went into the garment bag along with the two suits he'd left behind. He bit the inside of his cheek as he stared at everything on his dresser, wondering what to take. The cufflinks she'd bought for him? The watch? He glanced down at his hand, rubbing his thumb over the thick silver band she'd bought for him in Mexico when she'd gone there for work. 

Shaking his head, he left everything there, the ring still on his finger. His nightstand was simple. There was nothing there that wasn't replaceable or completely unnecessary to replace. She'd look once she realized he'd been here, be glad to see the condoms were still in the box, never thinking - never allowing herself to think - that he could easily buy more. More easily than he could take the few remaining from beside their bed. 

Her bed now. 

He set the suitcases in the hall and moved into the living room, surveying the small area. There was a bottle of wine on the desk, the brandy glass tipped over so that there was a dark, burgundy pool in the curve of the bowl. He moved over and stood the glass up then shook his head, carrying it and the bottle into the kitchen. 

He dumped out the dregs of the wine, rinsing out her glass and upending it in the drainer. He felt too big in the small room, as always, turning and finding himself practically against the opposite counter. Grasping the crumpled dish towel, he wiped the counter down, his eyes not focusing on the task at hand. She'd been naked and spread-eagled on the tile, hungry eyed as he'd concentrated on painting her nipples with the maraschino cherries. He'd sprayed whipped cream between her breasts, down her sternum, pooling a large dollop between her legs before he'd pushed his tongue into the airy concoction and found her clit. 

His face had been covered with cream as he'd climbed up her body, only hitting his head once on the cabinets above them before he'd slid inside her, listening to her gasp and moan his name with every stroke. Afterwards, he'd cleaned her with his tongue, using the towel to dry her skin before he'd chased her into the shower and they'd gotten wet again. 

Setting the towel down, he moved over to the TV. The silence was oppressive, filled with half remembered memories. Vividly remembered memories. Unrealized hopes. The TV was turned up loud, no doubt to accommodate for deafening music from upstairs. "I wouldn't mind listening if they had some taste," she'd muttered every time, the knob moving higher until conversation was impossible. 

On those nights, he'd always tried harder to make her scream. 

"I don't get it. You were happy." Jack had cornered him the day after, hunting him down at work and following him to his car. 

"We were." 

"So what the fuck happened?" 

"Nothing." 

"You just decided it was time to leave?" 

He'd nodded, knowing Jack wouldn't understand. He wasn't sure he understood himself. "I just decided it was time to leave." 

"She loves you." 

"I love her." 

"So why the fuck did you leave?" 

He'd gotten in his car, rolled down the window so that he could look Jack in the eye. "Because if I hadn't, I would have had to soon enough." 

It was no answer and he knew it. Had known it before the words left his mouth. But just because it wasn't the answer anyone wanted, or even one that made senseit didn't make it any less true. 

He walked back into the bedroom, allowing himself to look around. Her clothes were straightened in the closet, his dresser looked undisturbed. He walked over and smoothed the blanket on the bed, ironing out any wrinkles with his hand. 

Her skin was an odd color, the tan fading from the winter spent inside. But it had looked so good against his darker skin, felt smooth beneath his hands. His fingers had explored her, touching her in places he sometimes neglected, places she wanted but was afraid of, places that made her gasp aloud, places that made her shiver with a combination of pleasure and pain. 

His lips had brushed the nape of her neck before she'd rolled over, body opened up to him, legs spread as he slid so easily between them. They fit together so simply, like two puzzle pieces, her body hot and wet and slick as he'd slid inside, whispering hungry desires into her ear as she came all around him. Her breathy voice begging him to come so deep inside her, to push harder. 

Shaking his head, he took an involuntary step away from the bed and inhaled, searching for the lingering smell of sex. He stepped back and turned, freezing when he saw her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with hurt. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Getting a few of my things." He gestured toward the hall, the suitcases piled up. "I knew you were working late. Gwen told me." He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stand still. "You haven't told anyone in the office?" 

"No." She smirked at him, though the emotion behind it was more hurt than angry. "I wasn't all that keen on telling the gang that you'd walked out on me. What did Gwen tell you?" 

"That you were working late." 

"When did she tell you this?" She moved into the room slowly, keeping her distance from him, from the bed. 

"I called this afternoon." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair as he turned toward the door. "I was just leaving, Jo. I'll get out of your way." 

"You were never in my way." 

He stopped, sighing again, his shoulders rising and falling heavily. "This isn't about you, Joey." 

"I know." Her voice was cracking, tears eroding the stableness of it. "You said that. You said that several times before you walked out of the door of the apartment we've shared together for six years. Six fucking years." 

"I know how long it was, Jo." He tilted his head back, his eyes closed tight. Finally he opened them, turning around to face her. "I'm going to go." 

"Of course you are. You're going to leave because it's easy for you." She sneered at him, her eyes wounded. "It was always easy for you to walk away from me, wasn't it?" 

"It's never easy, Joey." His voice was soft, thick with emotion. "You think it's easy to walk out that door? Do you think I didn't spend my nights lying there wondering what I was thinking, why I would even want to be somewhere else than right beside you? Being with you, being together, was what I wanted forever, Joey. What I fought for. Time and time again, I worked my ass off to be the person I wanted to be for you." 

"And what? Then you decided I wasn't worth it?" 

"Then I decided that I didn't want to be that person." 

"Which is a nice way of saying you don't want to be with me." She stated the words matter-of-factly, not allowing him to argue. "You can sugarcoat it, and I have to give you credit for not actually humiliating me in front of a boatful of our peers this time, but it's the same old argument and it's the same old lie. You're insecure." 

"I'm leaving, Jo." 

"Well so am I! So is everyone." Tears stung her voice, causing it to swell as if allergic. "You think walking away from me, from us, is going to solve your problem? You think being alone is going to make you feel better? More adequate? Smarter? Stronger? Happier? Being alone is just going to make you the exact same as you are with me." She dropped her voice, quiet now though it still filled the room. "Only alone." 

"Goodbye, Jo." 

"Can't you leave me for someone else, Pacey?" He flinched as she said his name for the first time. "Can't you at least fuck around on me so I can hate you?" 

He stopped in the doorway as he bent to pick up the suitcases. Straightening, he looked back at her. "Who do you want me to fuck, Joey?" 

"Someone. Anyone. Gwen." She sniffed back tears, hating that he could still make her cry. "No. Someone worse. Dawson." 

"You want me to be fucking Dawson?" He fought to suppress a grin. "You're joking, right?" 

She smiled as well, tears trailing down her cheeks. "Anyone, Pacey. Make it be anyone, so I know it's not me." 

"It's not you, Joey." 

"Tell me someone." 

"My new secretary, Mabel. She's seventy-two years old, but she looks hot in a muumuu." He watched her warily as she moved closer to him, closing the gap between them. "She wears enough perfume to choke a goat, but once you get past all that, she's quite sexy." 

"So you're leaving me for Mabel?" 

He nodded as she touched his chest, feeling his heart beating. "Mabel and Steve." 

"Who's Steve?" 

"Her pit bull." 

"Stay the night, Pacey?" 

He bent his head, feeling her breath on his lips. It would be so easy. Pulling away slowly, he shook his head. "I have to go. Goodbye, Joey." He turned and grabbed his suitcases, not looking around him as he left, not caring what he else he left behind when what really mattered was that he was leaving her.


End file.
